Four Times
by Wofl
Summary: Sam and Dean Failed at Sex and One Time They Didn't Wincest. Humor. bad!sex. Mature. CoWrite with mobydicksbong


The first time Sam and Dean try to have sex, well, let's just say the term 'catastrophe' doesn't even begin to cover it. Sam is barely eighteen, Dean gives him a fake ID for his birthday. Dad is away on a hunt, so they hit the bar for a celebration.

But it's after, when there's almost more alcohol then blood coursing through them and their faces are flushed and their legs don't seem to want to work the right way when things get interesting. They make it back to the hotel okay, and it's only a few moments - hell, probably only a few _seconds_ knowing Dean – before they're both in various states of undress.

Dean is standing at the end of one of the beds, shirtless, pants and boxers pooled around his ankles. Sam is on his back on aforementioned bed, his pants gone completely, his boxers making one last valiant stand against nudity; but that's a battle lost before it has even begun.

Dean drops to his knees and he'll tell anyone that asks that the action is intentional, but really, his pants have gotten the better of him and he's really too drunk to stand anyways. So it works out, and he makes the best of it.

It's Sammy's birthday, after all.

And it's not like they've done this before, you know? This is all new and exciting and terrifying all at the same time. Dean doesn't like to admit it, but he's downright clueless when it comes to The Way Things Work, concerning gay sex. It's not like he ever anticipated he'd be in such a relationship. So he's doing this on the fly and all he has to go on is the way he likes it. So he supposes a blow job isn't a bad place to start.

He's had plenty of those in his life, and surely it can't be that hard, right? He tugs down his brother's boxers and it's only at that point that he realizes he's going to have to rethink his game plan, because he's way too drunk to be able to remember how those girls had done it. But Dean has gone down on girls before and surely sucking cock can't be all that different. Well, the method is a complete one-eighty, but the concept is still the same.

So he reaches forward with one tentative hand and wraps his fingers around Sam's dick and the appreciative moan he receives gives him enough confidence to lean forward and trace a broad stripe up the underside of Sam's cock with his tongue. Sam gasps somewhere above him, but it hardly registers because Dean is too busy marveling at how surprisingly _good_ Sam tastes. He sets to his task with a newfound enthusiasm that he doesn't stop to think about. He _can't_ stop to think about it 'cause it's way too fucking weird to consider the concept that Dean Winchester, Ladies Man Extraordinaire, enjoys sucking cock. And not just any cock, _his little brother's cock._

Yeah. _Way_ too weird.

When he tires of experimenting with all the different ways and angles he can lick Sam, Dean decides that it's time to step this up a notch and make this a proper blow job. If he's going to do this, he might as well go all the way, right? He takes the tip of Sam's cock in his mouth, tongue dragging across the head, precome a sweet tang that lingers – not unpleasantly - on his taste buds.

This is a whole new ballgame, he decides, quickly. Sam isn't a small guy, and with little to no practice in the sport, Dean's jaw is sore and tired in no time flat. But he keeps going, too drunk to care, to intrigued to stop, and that noise Sam is making – a low keen at the back of his throat – Dean's not willing to give that up quite just yet.

He's still not willing to give that up when the familiar nausea of one beer too many rolls in his stomach. Nausea's no stranger to Dean, no. They've met on plenty of occasions, usually in various bars across the country. This time, it's not so bad. A little unpleasant, maybe, but it'll pass.

Dean ignores it, and he's right. The churning fades away and Dean doesn't pause in his ministrations, eyes drifting up to take in the intoxicating sight of Sam, head thrown back, huge hands fisting in the motel sheets. Seeing his brother like this, Dean's not sure why they waited so long.

He closes his eyes and opens up his throat, taking more of Sam into his mouth, as much of it as he can. Above him, Sam gasps sharply, and bucks his hips. It's all too sudden, and with senses dulled by alcohol, Dean doesn't react fast enough, he chokes and his throat is a tunnel of burning agony, oh _God_, and then…

Well _that_ never happens in pornos, is all Dean can think, at first.

And then Sam is screaming something at him – probably something along the lines of _holy fuck that is beyond disgusting, oh my god, Dean_. - but he can't really think past the pain in his throat and the swiftly rising mortification that comes with the realization that he just puked. All over his brother's dick.

If that isn't a mood killer, Dean doesn't know what is.

Eyes wide, he barely dares to look up at Sam, but when he finally does, his brother isn't looking back. He's too focused on the pool of vomit in his lap. In fact, Sam looks rather green around the gills, Dean observes, and then the younger is clapping a hand to his mouth and then he's gone, bathroom door slamming behind him. Somewhere beyond, Dean can hear bitter retching and Dean lets his head drop into his hands with a groan.

Somehow, he knows Sam's never going to let him live this down.

The sound of running water hits his ears, and Dean figures it's about time to go do damage control, so he rises to his feet, still a bit wobbly, but it's amazing what sexual fiascos will do to sober a guy up in no time flat. He totters to the bathroom, not bothering to knock, just lets the door swing open while he clings to the doorframe for support.

"Sammy?"

"Go away, Dean," Sam says quietly from behind the shower curtain. There's no heat to his words, and perhaps that's what worries Dean the most.

He sighs, not really sure what to say, beyond asserting that he's sorry. Apologies aren't normally Dean Winchester's style, but he doesn't normally puke in people's laps in the middle of sex either.

"It was an accident, Sam." Dean's tone is just as quiet. God, he hopes things won't be weird now.

There's only the sound of the shower running, and the quiet makes Dean uncomfortable. And then, even the running water is gone and metal rings that hold the shower curtain screech a protest as they're dragged sideways. Sam steps out and fixes Dean with a withering stare. "You puked. On my…" Sam gestures wildly towards his crotch and blushes, too new with this sort of thing to articulate further. "ON ME," he finishes.

Well, that's not really fair, Dean thinks. Instead of cringing away from Sam's anger, belligerent instinct prods him toward defensiveness. His eyebrows furrow into angry lines above the gaze he brings up to match Sam's. "You're the one who jammed your dick halfway down my throat," he snarls, one hand coming up to massage at the lingering pain to emphasize the point.

Sam's eyes narrow dangerously. "Don't even _try_ to blame this on me, Dean." His tone is dark, bordering on deadly, the undercurrent of anger there is something Dean has never seen before in Sam; at least never directed at him. They maintain eye contact for another minute or so, a battle of both will and guilt. And finally, with a thought to how traumatizing being puked on must be, Dean's gaze wavers, drops to somewhere just below Sam's nose.

"We are so never having sex again," Sam mutters with a snort, and at that, he stalks past Dean out of the bathroom, leaving Dean alone with an unpleasant heaviness s battling with righteous fury somewhere deep in his guts.

"Like you can even call that sex," he scoffs, on principal alone, but Sam doesn't hear him. Sam is already in his bed and making it very obvious that he intends to sleep alone. Well, good, fine, whatever. Dean turns off the bathroom light and makes his way over to the other bed where he strips off the reeking, vomit-covered comforter and balls the blanket up, tossing it in a corner. "And I highly doubt that," he adds, snidely, and the words only serve to help nurse his wounded pride.

A few months later, Sam leaves for college – all furious words and lost tempers there - and it's only then that Dean stops to consider that maybe Sam hadn't been wrong after all. It's a rather depressing thought, really.

Sam has been back from college for almost a year now, and Dean has started thinking about his brother again. He knows that pinning Sam against the Impala should be the last thing on his mind, considering their shaky history, but for some reason he just can't erase the image of his naked younger brother from his head.

Its while he's in the shower that Dean decides he should bring the idea of 'them' up, although he's not sure how to do it. He's never been a sharing and caring kind of guy, and the idea of confronting Sam with his feelings makes his stomach tie up in knots.

He's nervous as he steps out of the shower and walks towards the glow of the bedroom. He knows there's no denying the sexual tension between he and his younger brother, but puking on someone's dick isn't exactly something you bounce back from. Relief floods over his body as he sees a partially naked Sam in his bed and thinks that maybe this won't be so bad. Sasquatch has clearly made the first move, and he climbs into bed next to his counterpart.

The feeling of being pressed up against his younger brother is enough to send all of the blood that was in his once flushed cheeks, straight to his dick. Sam leans tentatively forward, and Dean rushes to meet him halfway, capturing a bottom lip with his teeth, tugging gently. Chapped lips clash with teeth and tongue and saliva as the kiss deepens, hands wandering aimlessly over sticky skin, desperate to have as much contact as possible.

"Dean," Sam says breathlessly against his brothers lips."...about the last time we did this..."

"Seriously Sammy." Dean murmurs. "Shut the fuck up."

"I think I'm allowed to say something, Dean, considering you're the one that ralphed on me."

"Well" Dean retorts, becoming defensive, "maybe I wouldn't have puked if you and your ride-em-cowboy hips weren't jamming your dick down my throat. Plus," Dean adds smugly, "I out drank you by like, 10 beers."  
"Seriously Dean, are we going to fight or give this another whack?" Sam laughs inwardly at his pun, but soon forgets it upon the sensation of Dean's hands inching their way towards the waistband of his boxers.

Again, Dean presses his hot mouth over Sam's and all coherent thoughts fly out of both the Winchester's minds. As the kiss between them becomes impossibly deep, a small gasp escapes Sam's mouth, and Dean pulls back just enough to take in the sight of his brother. Sweat beading at his brow, face and chest flushed with desire, lips like fresh fruit ready to be plucked and eaten...its all Dean can do not to lose himself right then and there. Instead, he opts for burying his face in the crook of Sam's neck, nipping at it like a playful puppy, licking up the sweat that has collected in the hollows.

As Sam's back arches with arousal, he digs his fingers into Dean's back, blood pooling lightly where nail has entered flesh. Now, its Dean's turn to gasp, amazed at how intensely his brother responds to even the slightest touch. After what seems like an eternity of kissing, touching, and biting, Sam finally whispers, "Please, Dean," as his eyes focus longingly on Dean's full lips.

Those two words are all Dean needs. He plants one last, lingering kiss on Sam's lips, before he makes his way down, pausing to kiss neck and rib and hip and thigh. Taking in the sight of his brother's cock, he can tell it won't be long before Sam comes, stimulation or not. Taking a deep breath and thanking whomever that he's had practice since the last time they did this, Dean engulfs Sam in his mouth, sucking in his cheeks to create the tightest of suction.

An animalistic noise escapes Sam's throat as he bucks his hips forward, and this time, Dean knows to move with him. A constant stream of curses escapes Sam's mouth as Dean works his way further and further down. Propping himself onto his elbows, the youngest of the two looks down in awe as he watches himself be swallowed completely by his brother. The sight of a completely naked Dean, bobbing his head and grinding his hips into the bed is all it takes for Sam to fall over the edge completely.

"Oh God...Dean...I'm gonna..." Sam gasps, pulling out of Dean's mouth. His orgasm shakes him to the core, but before he can even collapse on the bed, a fist connects with his face at monster truck force, knocking him to the floor.

"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? YOU PUNCHED ME?" Sam bellows.

"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? YOU CAME IN MY EYE," is Dean's retort as he stumbles blindly towards the bathroom.

Dean curses at the stinging in his eyes as he splashes the cold tap water over his face, doing his best to wash away his brother. "What a fucking moron," he mumbles to himself as he pats his face dry. When he can finally see straight, he flicks off the bathroom light and returns to the bedroom. He walks past Sam, still in the same spot on the floor - sulking of course - and climbs into bed. He makes sure he shoots Sam an 'I'm going to fucking kill you' look, before lying on his stomach, making sure he takes up the entire bed.

As Sam sits on the dirty motel floor, absentmindedly rubbing his face, he makes himself a promise that he will never attempt having sex with Dean again. And he means it, this time. Maybe, he thinks, this is God's way of telling him that incest is _not_ okay.

It happens again. And Sam has resigned himself, at this point, to the fact that it probably always will. It's hard to resist when Dean has been five feet away from him all day, inadvertently teasing him with desire like nobody ever should be able to.

They're in Illinois, tracking a Piasa Bird, and though Sam has heard of them, neither of them have ever hunted one. It's a nasty bugger, they know that much. It carries off grown men and devours them alive, and according to the legend, it can be slain with poisoned arrows, but it says nothing about what _kind_ of poison.

So they hit up the local library and spend the better part of the day pouring through the dusty tomes in search of answers. Well, at least Sam does. Dean has been drumming his fingers on the table impatiently, or, barring that, he's been humming Metallica to himself. Or flirting with the librarians that occasionally pass by their table. Sam even catches him sleeping at one point. Trust Dean to sit back and do nothing while Sam does all the work.  
It's okay though. Sam knows Dean will more than make up for it later when they're out there facing the son of a bitch. Dean always throws himself wholeheartedly into the actual _hunting_ part of the job.

But research is hard this time around, and his brain is reminding him that all work and no play fucking sucks. So when Dean sighs, leans back in his chair, and yawns, Sam is watching intently, having long ago grown bored with the fruitless searching. And the way his brother's Adam's apple dances up and down instills in Sam a deep need to map it with his tongue, and really, it's more than Sam can take.

He slams the book he's been pouring through closed and little motes of dust hop into the air, turned visible in the last dying rays of the sun that stretch in through an open window. "We're done here," he practically growls, and ignores the puzzled look Dean shoots his way. He simply shoves the book back onto the nearest shelf and fists one hand in Dean's jacket, all but dragging him out of the library.

"What the hell is this about?" Dean demands, when they pass the exit signs, leaving the quiet zone behind them.

Sam doesn't deign to answer, just backs Dean up against the Impala and claims Dean's lips for his own. His brother groans into his mouth, and when Sam's sure there are no protests forthcoming, he abandons Dean's mouth in favor of claiming his long awaited prize. Ducking his head, he sets lips to flushed skin and traces his tongue over flesh and the bone buried beneath it. Tantalizing, intoxicating, and Sam savors it. When he scrapes his teeth across Dean's throat, a fist tightens in his hair and he can hear Dean panting in his ear.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean breathes, barely a whisper, and when Sam looks up, he can see his brother's eyes have glazed, gone hazy with lust.

Unfortunately, they are in a library parking lot and they can't do much more without the danger of someone calling the cops – indecent exposure and all that, the general public doesn't appreciate it. Sam bares his teeth and snarls low in his throat, hand fisting in Dean's shirt. "Get in the car," he demands, and shoves away from Dean, circling the car and sliding into the passenger seat.

Normally, Sam hates it when Dean speeds. He thinks it draws too much attention to an already conspicuous vehicle. But in this case, Sam grits his teeth and wishes Dean would drive faster, dammit. And he knows he's promised himself – more than once before – that he and Dean would never stray down this path again but as he watches the way Dean grips the steering wheel and unconsciously licks his lips, eyes occasionally darting over to glance at Sam, he knows some promises are made to be broken.

Not soon enough, they reach the motel and the instant Dean unlocks the door, Sam presses him up against the entryway wall, using his foot to slam the door closed behind him. Lips meet unceremoniously, teeth clicking roughly together in Sam's eagerness to taste Dean. He ignores the flash of pain, just presses his tongue deeper into Dean's mouth, intoxicated with the taste and feel, everything that makes Dean _Dean_.

His brother groans into Sam's mouth, a noise that reverberates until it's echoing in Sam's bones and he shivers. That's all the confirmation he needs to know that Dean's also willing to give this another shot and he relents, breaking the kiss, panting. "What do you say we forgo the blow jobs this time, huh?" he asks, rather breathlessly.

"Forgo? English, Sammy, enough of that college-speak." Dean quirks an eyebrow and smirks at Sam, the smarmy bastard, but Sam knows his brother well enough to know that's just Dean's way of agreeing. He lets it slide, doesn't bother trying to find the working part of his brain that could come up with a proper retort.

It doesn't really matter anyway, because suddenly, Dean is taking the initiative. He's all hands now, fingers prying at shirt buttons as he methodically backs Sam across the room towards the bed, leaving a trail of abandoned clothes in his wake. By the time the backs of Sam's knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls back onto the mattress, Dean a heavy weight on top of them , he's naked and Dean's not far behind. Tentatively, the elder reaches down to stroke Sam's growing erection to fullness, and Sam can't help the gasp that slithers up and out of his throat.

"Dean," he manages, when he can't stand the teasing touches any longer. He wants more, _craves_ it; he wants to feel Dean move inside of him. Above him, Dean grunts, and Sam looks up to find Dean blushing. _Blushing!_

"I don't," Dean begins, and looks away.

"Dean?" And his name isn't a desperate request, this time, but a question. Dean doesn't blush. The brother he's known his entire life is never one to let something embarrass him to that point. This is thin ice. Sam knows enough to tread carefully.

"I've never done this before," Dean admits, steeling his resolve and swinging his gaze back to meet Sam's. "I don't," he gestures vaguely, "you know."

Oh.

_Oh._

"If it makes you feel better, neither have I," Sam replies quickly, knowing it will assuage Dean's insecurities if he knows he's not alone in his uncertainty. No better way than to find out together, right? Sam reaches up and pulls Dean down, kissing him again. It's different this time, however, it's slower, deeper; something that reassures them both.

Breaking apart, Dean nods, confidence returning, and that's better, that's more like Dean. Sam relaxes, lets his hands wander across the planes of Dean's back, fingers pressing hard enough to leave faint marks that are sure to develop into full fledged bruises later. Sam doesn't care, just relishes the feel of his brother as he grinds up against him, pressing away all thoughts.

"Right," Dean says, pushing himself up and off Sam and the younger whimpers at the loss of contact. "So, uhh, lube."

Right. Sam lets his head fall back against the bed, his eyes fall closed and he feels the bed dip, can hear Dean as he shuffles through his bag. A moment later and he's back, nudging Sam's legs open as he settles between them. Sam lifts his head and groans lustfully at the sight of Dean stroking his own cock, spreading lube over his erection.

It's too much, too long to wait, and Sam sits up, claiming Dean's lips, kissing him hard and fast before moving to nip at Dean's throat again; traces his tongue up across Dean's jaw line to nibble at his brother's earlobe before muttering hastily, "Fuck me, please, Dean. I want you to."

With that, he turns away from Dean, balances himself on hands and knees, presenting his brother with the soft curves of his bare ass. He looks over his shoulder, and sees that Dean's eyes have gone hazy with lust. He licks his lips and rises up onto his knees, and Sam shudders when Dean's hands find his hips, holding him firmly.

He gasps when the tip of Dean's erection brushes slickly against the cleft of his ass, and presses back against the sensation, craving more. "Dean," he manages, between breaths. And behind him, he can feel Dean's grip tighten and his brother lines his cock up with Sam's entrance and plows forward, too eager to go slowly, too inexperienced to know better.

It burns, at first; Dean's girth is too much, too fast, for someone who is previously untouched. Neither of the boys are knowledgeable enough on the subject to know about the benefits of stretching slowly, working their way up. Sam thinks, perhaps, this is just the way it is, that it will get better soon, will start to feel good like he's anticipated.

By the time Dean is halfway in –and his brother is neither slow nor particularly gentle - Sam knows he's lying to himself. The burning discomfort has blossomed to full fledged agony – something he can't block out because he's never prepared himself for this sort of pain before. He grits his teeth, determined to just endure it, but that lasts only so long, and a strangled, pained cry wrests free from his throat against his will, just as Dean comes to a halt, buried completely in Sam.

"Stop, Dean," he pleads, but he doesn't have to worry, Dean's been frozen in place from the instant he heard Sam voice his pain.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam has to close his eyes and push away the pain, concentrate on Dean's voice only. Every little nuance is torture, any motion, no matter how unintentional or minute brings the realization of how much his ass _kills_ right now screaming back to him without mercy. "Sam, tell me what's wrong?"

"Hurts," Sam grinds out, hating having to admit it. But it feels like there's something torn, back there, and there's no way he's going to be able to handle a proper fucking, not when Dean just being inside of him hurts this much. He drops his head, letting it hand between his trembling arms. "I can't do it, Dean. I'm sorry."

"If it hurt, you should have told me!"Dean reprehends, but his voice is thick with worry, guilt none of his usual bite behind the words. He shifts one hand to run it soothingly up Sam's back and the younger shudders at the touch, lets it calm him, if only marginally.

"Just take it out," he grunts, wincing with the anticipated pain. Oh, this is _not_ going to be fun.

And he's right, of course. It's like a train wreck, unavoidable, unstoppable and despite Dean's obvious efforts to be careful, pulling out hesitantly and slowly, by the time his brother slides free Sam's dizzy with the pain. His nostrils flare as he breathes hard, and finally the intrusion is gone, and Sam slumps down onto the bed, wincing at the sudden motion.

"Well, that sucked out loud," he mutters, burying his face in the sheets. He doesn't want to move ever again, he wants to sleep this off and pretend it never happened. He _knew_ there was a reason he'd vowed never to have sex with Dean again, and this just further confirms it. Dammit, surely this can be nothing less than some divine sign.

Dean is touching him, Sam is vaguely aware of it - if only because those touches are dangerously close to a place where Sam is sure he never wants anyone near again. He draws in a sharp breath, and moves to swat his brother away and maybe tell him that he's done enough damage for one night thank you very much and he's certainly not getting a second shot at it.

But then he can hear Dean hissing, drawing away sharply, like he's been burned, and he turns his head to meet Dean's wide eyes. "You're bleeding, Sammy," he says, a frown pulling at his features and he holds out his hand for Sam to inspect and he can see that Dean's fingers are stained red.

Sam's gaze shifts from the blood on Dean's hand to focus on the look on Dean's face and there's such an utter look of _failure_ there and Dean should never look the way he does right now. Sam knows he's to blame for this, knows Dean doesn't let most things get to him, but the one thing that can crack his brother's shell faster than anything else is seeing Sam hurt. And if he's the cause of that hurt…well…

Sam isn't about to let Dean wander down that path.

"I'm okay, Dean," he asserts, giving his brother a terse smile. And okay, maybe that's a _little_ bit of a lie, but he will be soon enough. He just needs to not move for the next few days. Dean still doesn't look convinced, opens his mouth to protest and Sam waves a hand, cutting him off before he can speak. "I'm just trying to decide whether I should be annoyed or impressed."

Dean's brows furrow, confusion apparent. "With what?" the older asks, at last, tasting the bait.

"How huge you are," Sam supplies, with an amused snort, "fucking freak."

Dean awakes to find Sam curled up next to him, still sleeping peacefully. His face is cut up and bruised from the previous night's hunt, but comparatively, its really nothing to worry about. His bare chest rises and falls at an even pace and little puffs of breath slip past his lips, and burst hotly across Dean's arm.

In the back of his mind, he recalls all the times he's sworn to never...try...anything with Sam again, but the stiffening in his boxers convinces him otherwise. It amazes Dean that even the sight of his brother's naked body can turn him into a bumbling idiot, causing him to forget all other existence other than his and Sam's.

Dean leans forward, holding his breath, and presses a soft kiss on the moist skin of Sam's neck. The sleeping brother gasps a little, and moves closer, snuggling further into Dean. It's only when Sam is gathered up into a pair of strong arms, Dean's lips against his, that he wakes up, meeting Dean's intense, lust filled gaze. A lazy smile tugs at his lips as he watches Dean lean in slowly for another kiss. Almost too suddenly the brothers are a tangle of limbs, arms pulling and pushing, legs intertwining. Dean bites back a yelp when Sam grabs onto his searing hot cock with a ferocity that leaves Dean in awe.

"What are we doing?" Dean gasps desperately, pulling back. "We said we wouldn't do this."

Sam shudders at the loss of his brother and scrambles awkwardly until Dean's head is in his hands, pressing their lips together in a kiss so intense that they both cry out.

Dean slams himself up against Sam with a force he would use during a hunt, flipping him onto his back. In one, fluid motion Dean pries Sam's legs apart with his own, and grinds their cocks together. Sam's back arches so suddenly that he lifts up off the bed, eyes open wide, grabbing at Dean's ass.

"Let me suck your dick." Dean growls into Sam's ear.

All Sam can do is groan in agreement as he feels his brother's teeth close around his ear lobe and tug, whispering into it "Oh Sammy. Fuck. Oh. Sogood. Mine. Fuck. Me. You. Ohgod."

Dean unexpectedly breaks the bond between them as he moves hastily to the foot of the bed. Spreading Sam's legs, and draping them over his shoulders, Dean moves closer and closer to his brother's dick. Taking the head in his mouth, licking it gently, Dean gathers the precome on the tip of his tongue, and spreads it over Sam's cock. Sam's hips stutter at the contact with his brother's mouth, and his eyes roll into the back of his head.

Working his fingers into Dean's hair, Sam holds his brothers head still. Letting out a low, almost evil chuckle that is very un-Sam-like, he simply says "Are you ready?"

Dean's mind reels, and a strangled groan escapes from somewhere deep inside of him. He supposes that his brother takes this as a 'yes' because before he knows it, Sam is full out fucking. His. Face.

Dean holds tightly onto Sam's thighs for fear of being thrown off the bed. He's not used to seeing his little brother let go so completely. Head thrown back, teeth barred, hips bucking...there is something in Sam that is completely feral, and it makes Dean harder than anything ever has before.

Tears leak out of the corners of Dean's closed eyes as Sam's cock slams against the back of his throat, again and again, and he struggles to breathe in between thrusts. He starts grinding his own cock furiously into the mattress, longing for some kind of relief from the aching of his dick.

Sam is clawing wildly at his brother's back, knowing that at the pace he's going, this won't last much longer. Suddenly, a hand snakes under him and he is totally unprepared for one of Dean's fingers sliding into his asshole.

"FUCK!" He screams, voice breaking. He begins thrusting his hips even more erratically than he had been before. The feeling of his head hitting the back of Dean's mouth, and that finger...curling and slamming into his prostate with each thrust, is completely too much for Sam. Tears filling his eyes, he cries Dean's name over and over again, coming until he is completely dry.

Gasping for breath, Dean shakily sits up, meeting Sam's gaze. Pupils blown and lips bloody from biting them, he drinks in his brother's face. Without warning Sam lunges forward and plows into Dean, knocking him on his back. Teeth smash against teeth and tongues explore each other as the kiss becomes hungry. Needy.

Dean wraps his legs around Sam and thrusts his swollen erection into his brother's hip, reminding him that there was business left unattended.

Sam shakes at the feel of it and bites down into his brother's neck gasping "Please Dean. Fuck me. Rightnow."

"Get on your fucking back." Dean growls, pushing Sam off of him. It will only be a matter of seconds before he completely loses it, and the only place he wants that happening is in Sam's ass.

Dean sits back on his heals and watches in amazement as his brother's gangly legs spread for him. Before he can stop it though, one of those long limbs come hurdling towards Dean's face, catching him right in the nose.

"SHIT!" he can hear Sam groan, but all that really matters to him, is finding something to stop the bleeding. Finally, Dean's hand comes in contact with a pair worn, cotton boxers, and he hurriedly presses them to his face, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

The mattress jostles as Sam rushes over, attempting damage control.

"Holy shit Dean I'm so sorry are you okay lemme take a look at it I'm so fucking sorry!!!!" Sam's words jumble together as he apologizes hastily.

"Mfine" Dean mumbles, face buried in the soft fabric. A tentative touch on his shoulder startles him, and he jerks away from Sam's touch.

"Please Dean," Sam says, now kneeling in front of him. "Let me just take a look at it."

"No!" Dean says stubbornly, but does not resist the finger under his chin, lifting his head up.

His eyes meet Sam's as the boxers are slowly pulled away from his face.

"See," Sam says gently. "It's not that bad."

"Easy for you to say. You didn't get kicked in the face by a giant."

Sam huffs, but refrains from saying anything, knowing his brother is right. Making his way hurriedly to the sink, Sam runs the bloody boxers under warm water, returning to his brother's side as quickly as he can.

Sam wipes at his brother's face gently, a strong contrast to the way he was acting five minutes ago. He fusses over Dean and dabs at the drying blood being most careful not to hurt him.

Dean scoffs and bats Sam's hand away, uncomfortable with the attention, yet grateful for the sentiment. Reclaiming the boxers for his own, he cleans himself up, making sure all the bleeding has stopped. Discarding the wet underwear, Dean leans back against the headboard and sighs deeply.

"Um. Dean?" Sam says sheepishly. "Is there anything I can do to make this up to you?"

"Well," the oldest replies, looking down at his still hard cock. "There is one thing."

The boys never expect much from John when it comes to paternal instincts but Dean can't help feeling disappointed when his father decides to skip out on a hunt, a day shy of his birthday. Although he'll never vocalize it, Sam can tell that Dean is beyond bummed out. It's not even that Dean won't look him in the eyes. Or tease him. Or eat much for Christ's sake. All that stuff aside, Sam just _knows_ and he's going to do his damndest to make it up to Dean.

Sam doesn't give Dean the option to say no when he tells him they're going out to the bar to celebrate. He hits his brother head-on with the puppy eyes – the ones he knows his brother is absolutely helpless against – and grins triumphantly when Dean sighs in defeat and shrugs on his jacket. They're in Montana and it's the end of January and it's fucking _cold_; one more reason Dean is less than inclined to do anything more than sit around the motel and mope. Really, he doesn't know why he lets himself be talked into these things.

The bar is nothing exciting. Nothing Dean hasn't seen before. Bleak. A few lonely drunks sitting around the bar spilling their life stories to each other, and some college kids playing pool, but other than that, nothing. Sam grabs Dean by his jacket and leads him over to a booth at the far side of the room. A perky waitress bounds over upon seeing them enter, and proceeds to ask them "What they'll be havin'."

"Bring me a..." Dean starts to say before Sam cuts him off.

"A bottle of Jack and two shot glasses," the youngest of the two chimes in. "Its his birthday," Sam adds, smiling at his brother.

"Sure thing, Sugar," she says to Sam before winking at Dean and adding "and happy birthday to you, Handsome."

Sulking be damned, it will be a cold day in Hell before Dean Winchester passes up the opportunity to flirt. He shoots her a grin and a tried and true one-liner and she walks away with a blush spreading pink across her cheeks. If she's just a _little_ hasty to get back with their drink order and lingers just a _little_ longer at their table, well, Dean isn't complaining.

And he has to admit, he's actually impressed with Sam's choice. He's taught his brother well, and a sharing a bottle of Jack with his brother in a warm bar is far from the worst birthday he's ever had. (The one he spent in the hospital with a broken leg, courtesy of an angry chimera, still holds that trophy.) Maybe it won't be all _that_ terrible.

It only takes a few rounds before Sam is a little on the loud side of tipsy, and Dean finds himself shooting the bar patrons apologetic smiles.

"Happy Birthday, Dean," Sam is saying, his smile huge and brilliant. The first genuine smile Dean's seen in who knows how long.

"Thanks, Sammy," he says returning the sentiment, but his own grin is only half-hearted, and he lets it fade into a wince as he catches a glare from a nearby table. "Hey...you wanna lower your voice a little?"

"I'm gonna give you a birthday to remember," Sam asserts, nodding, and Dean's not sure if the gesture is directed at him or if Sam is just informing himself of his plans. He brother seems to drift off after that, a far away sort of haze clouding over his expression.

"Dude? Do you have something in your eye?" Dean asks after a moment, when he notices his brother furiously batting his eyelashes.

"No...just thinking. You know what? I'm gonna take you back to the motel an- - -"

"Sammy! Thats enough," Dean cuts in. "Look at you, you've only had three shots and already you're giving me your bedroom eyes...which I have to say, are kind of creepy."

"Hmph! I've had four."

"Oh. Well _excuse_ me Mr. Heavy Drinker."

It wasn't meant as a challenge, not really, but that's how Sam takes it, and his glass is promptly shoved across the table, dwarfed by the hand gripping it. Sam shoots him a look and inclines his head, just barely. Dean takes the gesture for what it is and tips the bottle, pouring his brother another shot.

Sam kicks it back immediately, grimacing at the burn that slides down his throat, but he holds out his glass again and Dean fills it again and just as quickly, it's empty. Sam glances up at him and quirks an eyebrow as if to say _what're you going to say to that?_. Dean just smiles and throws back a shot of his own.

Yeah, he thinks, things are okay, now. This is good, swell, even if Dad isn't here. He can deal because Sammy is here and as long as Dean has that much he can—

All thought drops away as he feels a foot - _Sam's foot_ - make it's way in between his legs. Dean's eyes go wide, and he stares wildly at Sam. The younger rests his chin on his hands, eyes at half-mast, a wicked, wicked grin spreading slowly across his face. "You're so good to me, Dean. 'm gonna return the favor. 'm gonna make you feel so good…"

"Sammy?" Dean questions.

"Yeah?"

"Do you not _remember_ what happened the four other times we've tried to do this?" Dean remembers. Dean's kept count, for Chrissake. As if every one of those incidents isn't permanently ingrained into his head, along with a vast feeling of mortification.

"Yeah." Sam says with a half smile "'n I don' care." Dean buries his face in his hands as his brother continues to talk. "Plus. I can' stay 'way from you. Too fuckin' hot."

"Seriously though," Sam says, face becoming stern, doing his best to push away the slurring. "I've been thinkin' about this a lot lately...maybe we should jus'...give it one more shot."

Dean would have liked to say no but Sam's foot wandering up and down his leg makes the blood stop flowing to his brain, and start going somewhere else.

Finally Dean gives into his brother, but not before he downs three more shots consecutively.

"You. Car. Now." is all he has to say before Sam has jumped up, banging his knees on the table.

Sam staggers into the Impala, arms and legs flying wildly, looking for all the world like a clumsy baby giraffe. His foot only avoids being shut in the door by inches. The instant Dean's door slams, though, Sam is all over him. Grabbing the birthday boy by the collar of his leather jacket, Sam pulls him in for a kiss. Noses bump briefly before Dean takes Sam's head in his hands, tilting it to the left. Sam gasps into his brother's open mouth, and his hands fly down to Dean's crotch, kneading his hardening cock.

Dean latches on to Sam's neck, biting and sucking, causing the youngest to tremble.

"Dean. Fuck me. Right here," Sam begs.

Horrified, Dean pulls away. "Dude. Upholstery. How drunk _are_ you."

Sam just grins as Dean starts his car, heading towards the motel.

The entire way, Dean has to fend off Sam's wandering hands. He's not quite drunk, but he's tipsy enough that driving requires all of his concentration and Sam's hands fondling him are not congruent to remaining on the road. So he snarls at Sam to _cut the shit, I'm trying to drive_ and Sam looks wounded, but retreats. For the moment.

Those hands are back the instant Dean unlocks the door to the room. They wander aimlessly, touching every bit of Dean they can find and Sam is muttering in his ear, slurring too much at this point to be understood, but Dean knows Sam's tongue is the first thing to go when he's drinking. So he's not really as drunk as he sounds, and proves it by maintaining enough dexterity to undo the buttons on Dean's shirt, letting it fall to the floor, forgotten.

"So Dean," Sam slurs between kisses "how dyou wan' it for your birthday?"

"Lemme think about that one." Dean murmurs, smiling up at his brother. "First though, you need to get those clothes off."

Sam's reply consists of him undressing at what can only be described as relay race speed. He takes his pants off with such swiftness, in fact, that Dean has to bite back a chuckle as Sam looses his balance, tumbling onto the bed.

Dean leans over, kissing his brother softly, beckoning for Sam to follow him.

When they reach the bathroom, Sam drives him up against the wall, kissing as if the twenty seconds it took to walk from the bedroom is too long to be separated.

"Y' wanna do it in th' bathroom?" Sam asks looking confused.

"No you meathead. In the shower."

Sam's eyes grow almost comically round before crinkling up as he laughs, leaning forward to nip at Dean's collarbone. "Kinky bastard," he says, backing Dean towards the tub, reaching out with one long arm to spin the knob and water pours from the showerhead. "So fuckin' hot."

Sam barely allows time for Dean to shed his pants before he's dragging him into the shower, the water pouring down just a bit too cold. Goose bumps stand up across his arms, send a shiver down his back, but he doesn't care, doesn't _care_ because Sam's lips are on his, sucking away any and every though Dean ever had. Sam's hands are in his hair, pulling just a little painfully, but it's a thrilling sort of pain, and he relishes it.

His brother is backing him up, slowly driving their bodies ever closer to each other, breath puffing in Dean's ear in hard, wet gasps interspersed with low moans. It's not long before Sam has him pressed hard against the shower wall. All Dean can think is that Sam is soaking wet and naked and his mouth is doing so many wonderful, torturous things as it moves across his neck, his jaw, his ear and it's probably the hottest thing Dean can fathom.

"Sammy," Dean gurgles, the water spraying down on him obscuring the word. It's all the coherency he can manage, right now.

Dean moans deeply as Sam further presses his wet, naked body against his, pinning him to the cool tile wall. Lifting a trembling hand, Dean brushes strands of soaking hair away from his brother's face, devouring him in a kiss that seems to last for hours. Finally, the kiss is broken, and Sam pulls back, meeting Dean's eyes.

"I want you to let me do this Dean..." he whispers, his voice barely audible.

"Mmmwoahkay" Dean gasps as he feels his brother's long, cold fingers circle around his cock, giving it a quick tug.

Dean watches speechlessly as Sam grabs a bottle of conditioner, pouring it generously into his large hand. Flashing a quick smile, he spreads it over his impossibly hard dick, throwing his head back and hissing at the relief the touch gives him.

The youngest Winchester gives the older one a last, long look, before grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a kiss. 

Dean feels as if he's on fire when his brothers fingers pinch sharply at his nipples, then trail down the center of his stomach, stopping briefly to cup his balls. As the kiss becomes deeper, harder, Sam begins running his fingers up and down Dean's thighs, reaching back, tracing lightly over Dean's asshole.

The moment a finger enters Dean, he gasps for air and grabs helplessly for Sam's shoulders, clinging there, knowing without the added support his knees would give out. He muffles a yelp by shoving his face into Sam's neck and biting at the skin there, not even caring when his teeth pierce a few layers of skin.

Dean feels as if his heart is about to burst through his chest when Sam's knee nudges his thigh, implying that it should be lifted. Shakily, he picks his foot up, looking for a place to rest it. As if Sam reads his mind – hell, maybe he does - he picks his brother's leg up, drapes it over his, and backs Dean into a corner.

Reaching around and grabbing Dean's ass, Sam presses their bodies so close together there isn't even room for the shower water to trickle between them.

With a small thrust of his bony hips, Sam's cock is pressed hard against Dean's asshole, and he feels his brother hand snake up to the back of his head, tangling fingers and hair. Pushing forward ever so slowly, the head of Sam's cock finally breaches Dean, and once again, his knees give out and he is grateful that Sam is holding him up.

"Just do it Sammy!" Dean barks through clenched teeth, and he feels Sam's cock slide home. Dean almost blacks out as the head of his brother's dick grazes over his prostate.

The two boys look at each other, eyes blown wide with lust. Sam stills, completely inside Dean's ass, feeling the muscles ripple and tense around him.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Dean cries breathlessly, pulling back and impaling himself upon his brother. This time, it's Sam's turn to find something to keep him from falling, he grabs for the shower rod as he feels his brother's ass drawing him deeper and deeper in.

Sam bites his lip so hard that it begins to bleed, and wraps his hand around Dean's dick, matching the motion of his wrist with the thrusting of his hips.

At this point, all thoughts have left Dean's head. All he knows - all he can feel - is the tight grip on his cock, and Sam filling him, hitting that bundle of nerves with each thrust. With the cold water beating down on him, and Sam's breath coming quickly and sharply in his ear, Dean experiences complete sensory overload. He feels a shattering orgasm close in on him, and his ass clenches, causing Sam to cry out.

"Ohmygod. Sammy. I'msofuckingclose," Dean gasps, tears running down his cheeks, a result of the complete pleasure he was feeling.

'Oh Shit, Dean. Come for me. Jus' come."

With that, Dean's engorged dick spasms, and he comes with an intensity that he has never before experienced. He distantly hears his brother cry out, knowing that he has come too. They both sink slowly to the floor of the tub, clinging desperately to each other, shaking, and riding out their aftershocks.

It's a dirty trick, John supposes, but as the years pass he finds himself more and more at a loss as to how to be a good father. The best he can do is give Dean a surprise, show him that he hasn't _actually_ forgotten his birthday. Really, he's not _that_ insensitive.

The impala in front of the door is sign enough, and John knocks at what he knows to be his sons' room. There's no answer, and after a few minutes, worry kicks in. He doesn't hesitate; picking the lock with a nimble swiftness that he'd made sure to pass along to his sons before they hit puberty.

The door swings open, creaking a bit on its hinges and John's brow furrows at the sight it reveals. The room is in total and utter chaos; clothes spread haphazardly across the floor, sheets in ruins, weapons strewn about carelessly. His first thought is to anger. He's taught his sons better than this. But then, it turns quickly to anxiety, because _he's taught his sons better than this_ and it almost, almost looks less like they're slobs and more like there's been a struggle.

He crosses to the bed in five strides, turning in a circle to better asses the scene. Before he can draw conclusions, however, he hears a muffled thump from within the bathroom. Instantly, he draws out his gun and switches off the safety.

"Sammy? ….Dean?" John calls out hesitantly. Better to give up the element of surprise than to accidentally engage in friendly fire. He listens, carefully. More muffled thumps, and besides that, voices - low, barely audible.

"Shit, it's Dad!"

That's Sam's voice.

"What the fuck is he doing here?"

That's Dean's voice.

"Shut up, and get off me. Hurry."

_What?!_

Enough is enough. Forgetting pretenses and ignoring all boundaries surrounding bathroom doors and privacy, he moves to the door and doesn't bother to even _try_ the lock. Nope, fuck that. He just lifts one booted foot and, in true John Winchester style, kicks the door down.

It would almost be funny, if it weren't so horrifyingly, mind-bendingly, atrocious. It's….it's scarring, that's what it is. But the looks his sons direct at him - eyes huge and round, almost innocent – the irony in that alone would be a one hell of a punch line. If John could think past _My sons are naked. In the tub. Together._ he'd realize it is the exact look they used to give him when they were young and had been caught doing something they knew they weren't supposed to do.

As it is, John's brain is sort of melting and maybe dripping out his nose and he doesn't really know what to say or do or _anything._ Throw him a poltergeist or a vampire or a werewolf, hell, _anything_ and he could take it in stride. But this…

Nothing ever prepared a parent for something like this.

"Dad," Dean stammers at last, but really, what the hell can he say?

John feels his knees wobble and he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the terror, just long enough to find the sink counter and brace one hand against it to help support his weight. And then he's looking at his sons again, swallowing, and uttering the only word that comes to mind.

"Surprise." 


End file.
